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The  Best  Short  Poems  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century. 


The  Best  Short  Poems  of 
The  Nineteenth  Century 


BEING  THE  TWENTY-FIVE  BEST 
SHORT  POEMS  AS  SELECTED  BY 
BALLOT     BY    COMPETENT    CRITICS 


COMPILED   BY 


WILLIAM  S.  LORD 


Author  of  "Blue  and  Gold,"  "Jingle  and  Jangle. "•  etc. 


Fleming  H.   Revell  Company 


Chicago 


New  York 
1899 


Toronto 


Copyrighted  1899  by  Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 


NOTE. 

'X*WO  hundred  representative  literary  people  were 
■*■  recently  asked  for  a  list  of  "  twenty-five  of  the 
best  short  poems  (limit  fifty  lines)  written  in  the 
English  language  in  the  nineteenth  century."  This 
request  met  with  a  ready  response.  Lists  were 
received  from  prominent  poets,  critics,  editors,  edu- 
cators, and  others  interested  in  poetry.  These  lists 
were  carefully  prepared.  The  names  of  those  who  so 
kindly  gave  valuable  time  and  study  in  preparing 
them  would  be  given  had  not  the  request  been  made, 
in  a  number  of  instances,  that  the  list  submitted  be 
considered  confidential.  This  emphasizes  the  value 
of  the  verdict  as  being  a  perfectly  free  expression  of 
the  minds  best  qualified  to  judge  of  the  merits  of  the 
poetry  of  the  period. 

No  individual  list  is  given.  The  twenty-five  poems 
which  received  the  highest  number  of  votes  will,  it  is 
hoped,  make  an  acceptable  "nut-shell  anthology." 
They  are  arranged  in  order  according  to  the  ballots 
cast,  "The  Chambered  Nautilus,"  which  received  the 
highest  vote,  being  number  one  on  the  list. 

A  supplementary  list  of  two  hundred  poems  is 
arranged  alphabetically  by  authors.  These  poems 
received  votes,  but  none  received  enough  to  place  it 
among  the  first  twenty-five. 

It  is,  perhaps,  worthy  of  note  that  when  these  lists 
were  prepared  Mr.  Kipling  had  not  written  "Reces- 
sional," which  would  undoubtedly,  at  this  time,  be 
placed  well  among  the  first. 

The  names  of  Lowell,  Longfellow  and  Whittier  do 


Note. 


not  appear,  while  Bryant  is  represented  by  "To  a 
Waterfowl,"  and  not  by  "Thanatopsis. "  America's 
bards  number  five,  while  Tennyson's  name  appears 
four  times  and  Wordsworth's  name  three  times. 

In  the  supplementary  list  Longfellow  is  represented 
by  nine  titles,  Lowell  by  ten,  Tennyson  by  fifteen, 
Wordsworth  by  six  and  Whittier  by  five. 

Dr.  Holmes's  "Chambered  Nautilus,"  Mrs.  Howe's 
"Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  and  "Emerson's 
"Concord  Fight"  are  published  by  permission  of 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  the  publishers  of 
the  works  of  Emerson  and  Holmes  and  of  Mrs. 
Howe's  poems.  "Crossing  the  Bar''  is  reprinted  from 
The  Macmillan  Company's  complete  edition  of  Lord 
Tennyson's  poems. 

W.  S.  L. 

March,  1899,  Evanston,  111. 


THE  BEST  SHORT  POEMS  OF 
THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


I.  The  Chambbrkd   Nautilus  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes       •      9 
a!  The  Bugle  Song Alfred,  Lord  Ttnnyson       -    11 

3.  Crossing  the  Bar  -    -     -    -  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson       -    12 

4.  Battle  Hymn  of  the   Re- 

PCBLic y"^»«  WardHo-ue-    -    -    ■     13 

5.  The  Lost  Leader    -    -    -    -  Robert  Browning  -    -    -    -    15 

6.  On     First     Looking    into 

Chapman's  Homer     -    -    -  John  Keats 17 

7.  Ode  On  a  Grecian  Urn-     -John  Keats 18 

8.  "  She   was  a  Phantom  of 

Delight" li^illiam  IVordsworth    -    -    20 

9.  "The  World  is  Too  Much 

With  Us:  Late  and  Soon"    IVilliam  If^ordsworth    -    -    21 
10.  A  Musical  Instrument  -    -  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  22 

II.  Light Francis  IVilliam Bourdillon  24 

12.  To  a  Waterfowl    -    -    -    -   IVilliam  Cullen  Bryant     -    25 

13.  The  Three  Fishers    -    -    -  Charles  Kingsley   -    -    -    -    27 

14.  Lead.  Kindly  Light    -    -     -  John  Henry  Newman     -    -    28 

15.  I9RAFEL Edgar  Allan  Poe   -    -    -    -    29 

16.  Tears.  Idle  Tears-    -    -    -  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  -    -    31 

17.  Break,  Break,  Break      -    -  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  -    -    32 

18.  The    Burial  of    Sir    John 

Moore Charles  Wolfe 33 

19.  A  Court  Lady Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  ^^ 

20.  PR09PICE Robert  Browning  -    -    -    -    39 

21.  Concord  Fight Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  -    -    40 

22.  Adou  Ben  Adhem     -    -     -    -  Leigh  Hunt 4' 

23.  Night Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  -    -    -    4^ 

24.  Night  and  Death    -    -    -    -  Joseph  Blanco  White-    -    •    44 

25.  Daffodils IVilliam  Wordsworth    -    •    45 


The  Best  Short  Poems 

OF   THE 

Nineteenth  Century. 

I. 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.* 

'T'HIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign. 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purple  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings. 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare. 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell. 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell. 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell. 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ' 

*  Copyright,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
9 


lo  The  Best  Short  Poems 


Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  arch-way  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door. 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  ou  my  ear  it  rings. 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings: — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 
Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 
— Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
1 809- 1 894. 


Of  The  Nineteenth   Century.         ii 

11. 
BUGLE   SONG. 

'T'HE  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliflf  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
Which  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 
— Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 
1809-1892. 


12  The  Best  Short  Poems 

III. 
CROSSING   THE    BAR. 

CUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar 
When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark. 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  time  and  place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

— Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 
1809-1892. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         13 


IV. 
BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC* 

TV/TINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glorj' of  the  coming  of 

^^^  the  Lord; 

He  is  tramping  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored ! 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible 

swift  sword ; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  cir- 
cling camps ; 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 
and  damps: 

I  have  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 
flaring  lamps : 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal : 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with 

his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

*  Copyright,  I  ioughton,  Mi£9in  &  Co. 


14  The  Best  Short  Poems 


He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 
retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judg- 
ment seat ; 

O,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him!  be  jubilant,  my 
feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 


In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the 

sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and 

me: 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 
free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

— y«//Vz  Ward  Howe. 
1819 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         15 


THE   LOST   LEADER. 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us. 
Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us. 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  dol'd  him  out  silver. 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allovv'd; 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud ! 
We  that  had  lov'd  him  so,  follow'd  him,  honor'd  him, 

Liv'd  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learn'd  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us. 

Burns,   Shelley,  were  with  us, — they  watch  from 
their  graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freeman, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 


We  shall  march  prospering, — not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declin'd,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devil's- triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels. 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God! 


1 6  The  Best  Short  Poems 


Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twilight. 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,   for  we  taught  him — strike  gal- 
lantly, 
Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 
Pardon'd  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 

— Robert  Browning. 
1812-1890. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.  17 


VI. 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO 
CHAPMAN'S  HOMER. 

[UCH  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen , 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 


M' 


Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 

—Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez— when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific,  and  all  his  men 

Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

^John  Keats. 
1795-1821. 


1 8  The  Best  Short  Poems 

VII. 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

npHOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness! 

Thou  foster  child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?  what  maidens  loath? 
What  mad  pursuit?  What  struggle  to  escape? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels?  What  wild  ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 
Forever  piping  songs  forever  new ; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love ! 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         19 


Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
Forever  panting  and  forever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloy'd 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 
To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  forevermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !  Fair  attitude !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 

With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 

As  dost  eternity:  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

—John  Keats. 
1795-1821. 


20  The  Best  Short  Poems 


VIII. 
SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

SHE  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman,  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveler  between  life  and  death : 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

—  William   Wordsworth.     1 770-1850. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         21 


IX. 
SONNET. 

T^HIS  world  is  too  much  with  us:  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers ; 
Little  we  see  of  nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away, — a  sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, — 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  upgathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers, — 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God !     I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn: 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

— William  Wordsworth. 
1770-1850. 


22  The  Best  Short  Poems 


A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT. 

Al  7HAT  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddhng  with  hoofs  of  a  goat. 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river: 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran. 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay. 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  gfreat  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flow'd  the  river; 
And  hack'd  and  hew'd  as  a  great  god  can. 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 

(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river!) 
Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man. 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring. 
And  notch 'd  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 

In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         23 


"This  is  the  way,"  laugh'd  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laugh'd  while  he  sat  by  the  river,) 
"The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed. 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  reviv'd,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man: 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain, — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 

— Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 
1809-1861. 


24  The  Best  Short  Poems 


XL 

LIGHT. 

'X*HE  night  has  a  thousand  eyes 

And  the  day  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 
With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 
When  love  is  done. 

— Francis  William  Bourdillon. 
1852 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         25 


XII. 
TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

"IITHITHER,  'midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps 
of  day. 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  distant  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide. 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned. 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 


26  The  Best  Short  Poems 


And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  has  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone. 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight. 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone. 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

—  Will  tarn  Cull  en  Bryant. 
1794-1878. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         27 

XIII. 
THE  THREE  FISHERS. 

T^HREE  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West, 
■*■    Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best; 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the 
town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep. 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower. 

And  they  trimm'd  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
They  look'd   at  the  squall,  and  they  look'd  at  the 
shower 
And  the  night  rack  came   rolling  up  ragged  and 
brown ! 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands. 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down. 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 

For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep-^ 
And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

— Charles  Kingsley. 
1819-1875. 


28  The  Best  Short  Poems 

XIV 
LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT. 

T    EAD,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  nome — 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene, — one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  lov'd  to  choose  and  see  my  path ;  but  now 

Lead  thou  me  on ! 
I  lov'd  the  garish  day  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  rul'd  my  will:  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  biess'd  me,  sure  it  stiU 

Will  lead  me  on, 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone ; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  lov'd  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

— John  Henry  Newman. 
1801-1890. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century. 


XV 
ISRAFEL. 

TN  Hea-ven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute;' 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon 

Blushes  with  love. 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings — 

The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty — 
Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 


30  The  Best  Short  Poems 


Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 
Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 
Best  bard,  because  the  wisest! 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above 
With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute- 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine ;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers. 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 

Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 

He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 

While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

— Edgar  Allan  Poe. 
1811-1849. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         31 

XVI. 

TEARS,  IDLE  TEARS. 

'X'EARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean; 
Tears  from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

— Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 
1 809-1 892. 


32  The  Best  Short  Poems 


XVII. 
BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

"DREAK,  break,  break, 
■^       On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on, 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand. 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

— Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 
1809-1892. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         33 

XVIII. 
THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

"VrOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried: 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow. 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 
head. 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 
But  little  he'll  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


34  The  Best  Short  Poems 


But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory! 

—Charles  Wolfe. 
1791-1823. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         35 


XIX. 
A  COURT  LADY. 

TTER   hair  was    tawny  with  gold,   her  eyes  with 

purple  were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  restless 
spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  and  in  race; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and 

wife, 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  manners 

and  life. 

She  stood  in  the   early  morning,    and   said  to  her 

maidens,  "Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court  of 

the  king. 

"Bring  me  the  clasp  of  diamonds,  lucid,  clear  of  the 

mote. 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the 

small  at  the  throat. 

"Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to  fasten 

the  sleeves. 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of  snow 

from  the  eaves." 


36  The  Best  Short  Poems 


Gorgeous  she  enter'd  the  sunlight  which  gather'd  her 
up  iu  a  flame, 

While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the  hos- 
pital came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from  end  to  end, 
"Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the  place 
of  a  friend. ' ' 

Up  she  pass'd   through  the  wards,  and   stood  at  a 

young  man's  bed: 
Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop  of 

his  head. 

"Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother?    Happy  art  thou," 

she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him:  he  dream'd  in  her  face 

and  died. 

Pale  was  his    passing  soul,  she  went   on  still   to  a 

second : 
He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dungeons 

were  reckon 'd. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his  life  were 

sorer. 
"Art  thou  a  Romagnole?"     Her  eyes  drove  lightnings 

before  her. 

"Austrian  and  priest  had  join'd  to  double  and  tighten 

the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one, — free  by  the  stroke 

of  a  sword. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         37 


"Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life  over- 
cast 

To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present,  (too  new, )  in  glooms 
of  the  past. ' ' 

Down  she  stepp'd  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face  like  a 

girl's, 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying, — a  deep  black  hole 

in  the  curls. 

"Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother?   and    seest  thou, 

dreaming  in  pain. 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list  of 

the  slain?" 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touch'd  his  cheeks  with 

her  hands: 
"Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  although    she 

should  weep  as  she  stands." 

On  she  pass'd  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried  off  by 

a  ball: 
Kneeling,  .  .   .  "O  more  than  my  brother !  how  shall 

I  thank  thee  for  all? 

"Each  of  the  heroes  around  us,  has  fought  for  his 

land  and  line. 
But  thou  hast   fought  for    a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a 

wrong  not  thine. 

"Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dispos- 

sess'd: 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations,  who  dare  to  be 

strong  for  the  rest !" 


38  The  Best  Short  Poems 


Ever  she  pass'd  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a  couch 

where  pin'd 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a  hope  out 

of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gaz'd,  and  twice  she  tried  at  the 

name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  falter'd  and 

came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice? — she  turn'd  as  in  passion  and 

loss, 
And  stoop'd  to  his  forehead  and  kiss'd  it,  as  if  she 

were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart  she  mov'd  on  then  to 

another. 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     "And  dost  thou  suffer, 

my  brother?" 

Holding  his  hand  in  hers: — "Out  of  the    Piedmont 

lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom !  sweetest  to  live  or 

to  die  on." 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands, — "Well,  oh,  well  have 

ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble 

alone." 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose  to  her  feet 

with  a  spring, — 
"That  was  a  Piedmontese!  and  this  is  the  Court  o^ 
the  King." 

-Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 
1809-1S61. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         39 

XX. 

PROSPICE. 

ppEAR  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place. 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go ; 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attain'd, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained. 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more. 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  for- 
bore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers. 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end. 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave. 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !  I  shall  clasp  thee  again. 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 

— Robert  Browning. 
18 1 2-1800. 


40  The  Best  Short  Poems 

XXI. 
CONCORD  FIGHT.* 

"D  Y  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream. 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem. 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free. 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 
1 803-1 882. 

•  Copyright,  Houghton,  MiflBin  &  Co. 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         41 

XXII. 
ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

A  BOU  BEN  ADHEM  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
■^^      Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  of  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold; 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold. 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"What  writest  thou?"     The  vision  raised  its  head. 
And,  with  a  look  made  all  of  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spake  more  low, 
But  cheerily  still;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 
The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light. 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 
And  lo!  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 

— Leigh  Hunt. 
1784-1859- 


42  The  Best  Short  Poems 


XXIII. 

NIGHT. 

C  WIFTLY  walk  over  the  Western  wave, 
"^       Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  Eastern  cave, 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear. 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear ; 
Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray. 

Star  inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day ! 
Kiss  him  until  he  be  wearied  out ; 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand ! 

Come,  long  sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree ; 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"Wouldst  thou  me?" 
Thy  sweet  child,  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee — 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         43 


"Shall  I  nestle  by  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me?"     And  I  replied — 

No!  not  thee. 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon ! 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night! 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight ! 
Come  soon,  soon! 

— Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
1792-1822. 


44  The  Best  Short  Poems 

XXIV. 

NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 

TV/r  YSTERIOUS  Night,  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee,  from  divine  report,  and  heard  thy  name, 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  Frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  Light  and  Blue? 
Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew. 

Bathed  in  the  ray  of  the  great  setting  Flame, 

Hesperus  with  the  Host  of  Heaven,  came. 
And  lo!  Creation  widened  on  Man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 

Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun !  or  who  could  find 
Whilst  flower,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 

That  to  such  countless  Orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind! 
Why  do  we  then  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife? 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive  wherefore  not  Life? 

—Joseph  Blanco  White, 
1 773-1 840. 


/ 


Of  The  Nineteenth  Century.         45 

XXV. 
DAFFODILS. 

T  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vale  and  hills. 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  dafifodils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay ; 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee — 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company ! 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought ; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
'  And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

—  William  Wordsworth. 
1 7  70-1 850. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST 
NINETEENTH  CENTURY  POEMS. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD— 1 822-1888. 

Dover  Beach. 

Requiescat. 

Shakespeare. 

Cadmus  and  Harmonia. 
THOMAS    BAILEY  ALDRICH— 1836 

Two  Songs  from  the  Persian. 

Identity. 

Nocturne. 
MRS.  CECIL   FRANCIS   ALEXANDER— 182— 

The  Burial  of  Moses. 
WILLIAM    BLAKE— 1757-1728. 

The  Tiger. 
ROBERT   SEYMOUR    BRIDGES— 1844 

"My  Song  Be  Like  an  Air." 
ELIZABETH     BARRETT     BROWNING  — 1809- 
1861. 

A  Valediction. 

Crowned  and  Buried. 
ROBERT   BROWNING— 1812-1889. 

Meeting  at  Night. 

Evelyn  Hope. 

Summum  Bonum. 

Echetlos. 

Instans  Tyrannus. 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's. 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad. 

My  Star. 

My  Last  Duchess. 

How  They  Brought  the   Good   News    from 
Ghent  to  Aix. 

46 


Nineteenth  Century  Poems. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT— 1794-1S78. 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers. 

"Dream  Not  That  Thou  Art  Blest." 

"Blessed  Are  They  that  Mourn." 

The  Battlefield. 

Thanatopsis. 
GEORGE   GORDON,  LORD  BYRON— 1788  1824. 

On  the  Day  I  Complete  My  36th  Year. 

The  Isles  of  Greece. 

Prisoner  of  Chillon  (Sonnet). 

"Fare  Thee  Well  and  if  Forever." 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib. 

Maid  of  Athens. 
THOMAS   CAMPBELL— 1777-1844- 

Hohenlinden. 

To  the  Evening  Star. 
ARTHUR   HUGH    CLOUGH— 1819-1861. 

WILLIAM   CORY— 1823-1892. 

Mimnermus  in  Church. 
SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE— 1772-1834. 

Youth  and  Age. 

Kubla  Khan. 
G.  W.  CUTTER— 

The  Song  of  Steam. 
CHARLES   STUART   CALVERLY— 1831-1884. 

Ballad — Butter  and    Eggs  and   a  Pound  of 
ChcGSc 
THOMAS   OSBURN    DAVIS— 1814-1845. 

Fontenoy. 
EMILY   DICKINSON— 1830-18S6. 

SIDNEY   THOMPSON    DOBELI — 1824-1874. 

How's  My  Boy? 
AUSTIN    DOBSON— 1S40 

Ars  Victrix. 

"Once,  at  the  Angelus." 

At  the  Convent  Gate. 
CON  AN   DOYLE— 1859 

The  Song  of  the  Bow. 
JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE— 1795-1820. 

The  American  Flag. 
GEORGE    ELIOT  (Mrs.  Lewes)— 1619-1880. 

Nay,  Never  Falter. 


48  Supplementary   List. 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON— 1803-1882. 

The  Rhodora. 

Brahma. 

Each  and  All. 

Days. 
EUGENE   FIELD— 1850-1895. 

The  Rockaby  Lady. 
JAMES   T.    FIELDS— 1816-1881. 

The  First  Appearance  at  the  Odeon. 
W.  S.  GILBERT— 1836 

The  Nancy  Brig. 
ARCHIBALD   GORDON— 

Grenada — A  Song  of  Exile. 
HOMER   GREENE— 1853 

What  My  Lover  Said. 
FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK— 1790-1867. 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 
BRET    HARTE— 1839 

The  Heathen  Chinee. 

The  Mountain  Heartsease. 
JOHN    HAY— 1838 

The  Lorelei  (translation). 

Little  Breeches. 
FELICIA   D.    HEMANS— 1794-1835. 

Casablanca. 
JAMES  HOGG— 1722-1835. 

The  Skylark. 
OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES— 1809-1894. 

The  Last  Leaf. 
THOMAS    HOOD— 1799-1845. 

Ruth. 

"I  Remember,  I  Remember." 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

The  Death  Bed. 
LEIGH   HUNT— 1784-1859. 

Jenny  Kissed  Me. 
JEAN   INGELOW— about  1830. 

Exultation  (Songs  of  Seven). 
JOHN    KEATS— 1795-1821. 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci. 

"Bright  Star,  Would  I  Were   Steadfast  as 
Thou  Art." 

Drear-Nighted  December. 


Nineteenth  Century  Poems.  49 


COATES    KIN>JEY— 1S26 

Rain  on  the  Roof. 
CHARLES    KINGSLEY— 1819-1875. 

A  Farewell. 
RUDYARD    KIPLING— 1865 

Hymn  Before  Action. 
CHARLES   LAMB— 1775-1834. 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces. 
WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR— 1775-1864. 

The  Death  of  Artemidora. 

Rose  Aylmer. 
SYDNEY    LANIER— 1842-1881. 

The  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee. 
WALTER    LARNED— 1847 

The  Tryst. 
AMY    LEVY— 

"All  the  Night  I  Dreamed  of  You." 
HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW— 1807-1882. 

The  Day  is  Done. 

Excelsior. 

The  Bridge. 

"In  the  Long  Sleepless  Watches." 

"By  His  Evening  Fire  the  Artist." 

"There  is  no  Flock,  However  Watched  and 
Tended." 

The  Psalm  of  Life. 

Weariness. 

The  Rainy  Day. 
JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL— 1819-1891. 

Si  Decendero  in  Infernum,  Ades. 

The  First  Snow-Fall. 

Villa  Franca. 

She  Came  and  Went. 

Stanzas  on  Freedom. 

My  Love. 

Hunger  and  Cold. 

Aladdin. 

The  Darkened  Mind. 

Mahmood  the  Image  Breaker. 

THOMAS   B.  MACAULAY— 1800-1859. 
The  Battle  of  Ivry. 

PHILIP  BURKE  MARSTON— 1850-1887. 
Thy  Garden. 


50  Supplementary   List. 


GUY    H.  McMASTER— 1829-1887. 

Carmen  Bellicosum. 
GEORGE   MEREDITH— 1828 

Lucifer  in  Starlight. 
ALICE   MEYNELL— 

Renouncement. 
F.  B.  MONEY-COUTTS— 

The  Dawn. 
THOMAS   MOORE— 1779-1852. 

Love's  Young  Dream. 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night. 

The  Bird  Let  Loose. 
WILLIAM   MORRIS— 1834-1897. 

From  the  Upland  to  the  Sea. 
COVENTRY    PATMORE— 1823 

The  Toys. 
EDGAR   A.    POE— 1811-1849. 

Eulalie. 

The  Raven. 

Adelaide'  a.  proctor— 1825-1864. 

The  Lost  Chord. 
Expectation. 
A.  T.  QUILLER-COUCH— 1863 

The  Marine. 

JAMES    WHITCOMB   RILEY— 1853 

When  She  Comes  Home. 

CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI— 1830-1894. 

Fluttered  Wings. 

Old  and  New  Year  Ditties. 

The  World. 
DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI— 1828-1882. 

A  Superscription. 

The  Blessed  Damosel. 

The  Cloud  Confines. 

Mary's  Girlhood. 
C.  D.  G.  ROBERTS— 1860 

The  Isles. 
SIR   WALTER   SCOTT— 1771-1832. 

Lochinvar. 

"Soldier,  Rest!  thy  Warfare  O'er." 

A  Weary  Lot  is  Thine. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu. 


Nineteenth  Century  Poems.  51 


WILLIAM   SHARP— 1856 

White  Violets. 
PERCY    BYSSHE   SHELLEY— 1792-1822. 

Ozymandias. 

To  a  Cloud. 

A  Lament. 

Lines  on  an  Indian  Air. 

"Music  When  Soft  Voices  Vie." 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty. 
EDMUND   C.    STEDMAN— 1833 

The  Hand  of  Lincoln. 

The  Undiscovered  Country. 
RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD— 1825 

Lost  Youth. 
EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL— 1841-1887. 

Evening. 

The  Fool's  Prayer. 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE— 1837 

The  Pilgrims. 

A  Baby's  Hands. 

A  Match. 

"Before  the  Beginning  of  Years." 

A  Forsaken  Garden. 
BAYARD   TAYLOR— 1825-1878. 

The  Song  of  the  Camp. 

Autumnal  Dreams. 
ALFRED   TENNYSON— 1809-1892. 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade. 

"Of  Old  Sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights." 

"Home  They  Brought  Her  Warrior  Dead." 

Sir  Galahad. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

"Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells." 

The  Sisters. 

To  the  Queen. 

"O     Swallow,      Swallow,      Flying,     Flying 
South." 

"Ask  Me  no  More." 

Sweet  and  Low. 

The  Higher  Pantheism. 

"Short  Sweet  Idyl." 

The  Sally  from  Coventry. 

The  New  Timon  and  the  Poets. 


52  Supplementary   List. 


BENJAMIN    F.    TAYLOR— 1819-1887. 

The  Isles  of  Long  Ago. 
WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY— 181 1-1863. 

The  Age  of  Wisdom. 
CHARLES   TENNYSON    TURNER— 1808-1879. 

Letty's  Globe  (Sonnet). 
THEODORE   WATTS— 1836 

The  First  Kiss. 
WILLIAM   WATSON— 1858 

England  to  Ireland. 

The  First  Skylark  of  Spring. 

Cromwell. 
JOHN    G.    WHITTIER— 1807-1892. 

Barbara  Frietchie. 

Ichabod. 

Two  Angels. 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride. 

Telling  the  Bees. 
ELIZABETH  WHITTIER— 1815-1864. 

Charity. 
MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY— 1824 

Behind  the  Mask. 
WALT   WHITMAN— 1819-1892. 

To  the  Man  of  War  Bird. 
OSCAR   WILDE— 1856 

I\.GQUlGSC3.t 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH— 1770-1850. 
Westminster  Bridge. 
"Three  Years  She  Grew." 
To  a  Skylark. 
"Scorn  Not  the  Sonnet." 
Milton  (Sonnet). 
London  (Sonnet). 


H 


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The  beauty  of  thought  and  expression  which  surrouods 
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the  daintiest  of  styles.  As  a  gift  book  it  cannot  be  sur- 
passed in  appropriateness  of  sentiment  or  beauty  of  pro- 
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Friendship.  By  Rev.  Hugh 

Black,  M.  A.  With  an  ap- 
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CONTENTS: 

The  Miracle  of  Friendship. 
The  Culture  of  Friendship. 
The  Fruits  of  Friendship. 
The  Choice  of  Friendship. 
The  Eclipse  of  Friendship. 
The  Wreck  of  Friendship. 
The  Renewing  of  Friendship. 
The  Limits  of  Friendship. 
The  Higher  Friendship. 

Dr.  Robertson  Nicoll  says:  "Mr.  Hugh  Black,  who  is 
now,  we  suppose,  the  most  popular  preacher  in  Scotland, 
has  published  a  wise  and  charming  little  book  on  Friend- 
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and  experience.    Mr.  Black's  is  the  art  that  conceals  art. 

The  Master's  Blesseds:     The   Christ's   Secret   of 
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tion to  devotional  literature.     In  its  mechanical  details- 
deckle-edged  paper,  ample  margins  with  artistic  illumina- 
tions, ornamental  chapter  headings  and  title  page,  deco- 
rated covers — the  booK  is  worthy  of  subject  and  author. 

The  Shepherd  Psahn.     By  Rev.    F.   B.   Meyer, 
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May  this  treasury  of  spiritual  comfort  be  wiciely  circula- 
ted."—  The  New  York  Observer. 


THE  QUIET  HOUR  SERIES 


This  is  an  age  of  condensation- 
ambitious  and  aggressive  folk  are 
even  seeking  concrete  presentations 
of  vital  themes.  The  aim  of  this 
series  is  to  supply  just  such  books. 
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little  volumes, 

Each  bound  in  ivory  buckram, 
stamped  on  front  and  re- 
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How  the  Inner  Light  FaUed.  A  Study  of  the 
Atrophv  of  the  Spiritual  Sense.  To  which  is  added 
"How  the  Inner  Light  Grows."  By  Newell  Dwight 
Hillis,  author  of  "A  Man's  Value  to  Society,"  "The 
Investment  of  Influence,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  Man  Who  Wanted  to  Help.    By  Rev.  J.G.K. 

McClure,  D.  D.,  Pres.  Lake  Forest  University. 
Young  Men  in  History.     By  Rev.  F.  W.  Gun- 

saulus,  D.  D. 

St.  Paul;  An  Autobiography. 

Faith  Building.     By  Rev.  Wm.  P.  Merrill,  D.  D. 

The  Dearest  Psahn  and  the  Model  Prayer.     By 

Henry  Ostrom,  D.  D. 

The    Life   Beyond.       By    Mrs.    Alfred    Catty- 
Adapted  by  M.  A.T. 
Mountain  Tops  with  Jesus.    By  Rev.    Theodore 

L.  Cuyler,  D.  D. 

A  Life  for  a  Life,  and  other  Addresses.  By 
Henry  Drummoud.  With  tribute  by  D.  L.  Moody, 
and  portrait. 

Peace,  Perfect  Peace.    By  Rev.  F.  B.  Meyer.B.A. 

For  the  sorrowing. 

Money:  Thoughts  for  God's  Stewards.  By  Kev. 
\ndrew  Murray. 

Jesus  Himself.    By  Rev.  Andrew  Murray. 

Love  Made  Perfect.     By  Rev.  Andrew  Murray. 

The  Ivory  Palaces  of  the  Kiiig.  By  Rev.  J.  Wil- 
bur Chapman,  D.  D. 

Christ  Reflected  in  Creation.     By  D.  C.  McMillan 


THE  LCX)KING  UPWARD  BOOKLETS 


Each  with  a  distinct  message 
of  its  own,  calculated  to  inspire 
the  reader  to  higher  things. 
Exceedingly  chaste  bindings 
lend  an  additional  charm. 

Illustrated,  ismo,  de- 
corated boards,  each,joc. 

Agatha's  Unknown  Way. 

By  "Pansy."  A  story  of 
missionary  guidance. 

The  Dream  of  Youth.  By 
Hugh  Black.  M.  A.,  author 
of  "Friendship." 

The  Spirit  Guest.  By  Jose- 
phine Rand.  The  Story  of 
a  Dream. 

The  Young  Man  of  Yesterday.    By  Judge  A.  W, 

Tenney. 

Did  the  Pardon  Come  Too  Late? 

lington  Booth. 

Comfort  Pease  and  Her  Gold  Ring. 

Wilkins. 

My  Little  Boy  Blue.     By  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey. 
A  Wastrel  Redeemed.     By  David  Lyall. 
A  Day's  Time  Table.     By  E.  S.  Elliott,  author 
of  "Expectation  Corner,"  etc. 

Brother  Lawrence;  or,  The  Practice  of  the  Pres- 
ence of  God. 

The  Swiss  Guide.  By  Rev.  C.  H.  Parkhurst,  D.D. 
Where  Kitty  Found  Her  Soul.     By  Mrs.  J.  H. 
Walworth. 

One  of  the  Sweet  Old  Chapters.  By  Rose  Porter. 
The  Baritone's  Parish.  By  Rev.  J.  M.  Ludlow, 
Child  Culture.  By  Hannah  Whitall  Smith. 
Risen  With  Christ.  By  Rev.  A.  J.  Gordon,  D.  D. 
Reliques  of  the  Christ.  By  Rev.  Denis  Wortman. 
Eric's  Good  News.  Byauthorof  "Probable  Sons." 
Ye  Nexte  Thynge.  By  Eleanor  A.  Sutphen. 
Business.     By  Amos  R.  Wells. 


By  Mrs.  Bal- 
By  Mary  E. 


LITTLE  BOOKS  FOR  LIFE'S  GUIDANCE. 


"The  Revell  Co.,  always  quick  to 
see  what  the  religious  public  will 
appreciate,  is  now  bringing  out  a 
series  entitled  Little  Books  for 
Life's  Guidance,  which  retail  at 
fifty  cents  each.  They  are  com- 
pact in  form  and  prettily  bound, 
each  volume  containing  perhaps 
150  pages.  Certain  characteristics 
are  common  to  them  all.  They 
are  written  for  Christians,  and  not 
for  worldly  people.  They  are  from 
men  whose  minds  are  saturated 
with  the  language  and  thought  of 
the  Scriptures.  .  .  .  But  the 
main  object  of  all  these  writers  is 
to  develop  and  make  effective  a 
life  of  faith  and  devotion.  They 
start  with  the  presupposition, 
which  cannot  be  gainsaid,  that 
most  Christians  fallshort  of  those 
heights  on  which  God  expects 
them  to  \\y&,—Congr£satio7iahst. 

Long  i6mo.,  decorated  cloth,  each,  ^oc. 

The  Lord's  Table.  A  Help  to  the  Right  Observ- 
ance of  the  Holy  Supper.    By  Rev.  Andrew  Murray. 

Sin  and  its  Conquerors.     Dean  Farrar. 

Discipleship.     Rev.  G.  Campbell  Morgan. 

Cheer  for  Life's  Pilgrimage.     Rev.  F.  B.  Meyer. 

The  True  Vine.  Meditations  on  John  xv.  1-16. 
Rev.  Andrew  Murray. 

Praying  in  the  Holy  Ghost.  Rev.  G.  H.  C.  Mac- 
Gregor,  M.  A. 

Saved  and  Kept.     Rev.  F.  B.  Meyer. 

Ways  to  Win.  Suggestions  -wxih  Regard  to 
Personal  Work  for  Christians.  By  Rev.  Dyson  Hague. 

Waiting  on  God.     Rev.  Andrew  Murray. 

Inspired  Through  Sufferingo     Rev.  D.  O.  Mears. 

Life's  Everydayness.  Papers  for  Women.  Rose 
Porter. 

When  Thou  Hast  Shut  Thy  Door.  Amos  R.  Wells. 

Foretokens  of  Immortality.  Newell  Dwight  Hillis. 

Yet  Speaking.     Rev.  A.  J.  Gordon,  D.  D. 

I  Believe.     Rev.  John  Henry  Barrows. 

A  Holy  Life,  and  How  to  Live  It.  Rev.  G.  H. 
C.  MacGregor,  M.  A. 


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